* * * * * Some day, Jonas thought, back in his cell, there would be a method of controlling minds that did not require the willing co-operation of the two parties. Some day the man who reads minds would be more than a passive onlooker. But the talent was new; it needed practice, it needed training. The cell grew dark as night came, and the dampness seemed to increase. Jonas heard squeaking and thought of the rats, but he couldn't even summon up enough energy to try for them. He sat crosslegged in a corner of the cell and closed his eyes. He sighed once, deeply. This was what a hero came to, he told himself. This was the end of heroics and playing a lone hand. Why, if he had it to do over again, he would-- "You would do exactly the same thing," Claerten's voice said. Jonas grinned suddenly, and sat straighter. "I should have known you'd be getting into contact sooner or later," he thought. "I try to keep track of all our men," Claerten thought. "In a case like yours, I try harder." "My foolishness," Jonas thought, "sometimes works to my benefit." Claerten's thought was wry. "If you hadn't got impatient and tried to hurry things," his voice said in Jonas' mind, "you wouldn't be back in your cell now. There is a time and a place for your disclosure--" "Another day in here would have driven me out of my wits," Jonas thought. "Better out of your wits than dead," Claerten thought. Jonas sighed. "However," Claerten went on, "there is still a way out for you. I have read the situation in your mind, and your next move will have to be rather more spectacular than usual." "So long as it works," Jonas said, "I will be satisfied." "It will work," Claerten said. "At least--I think it will." Another day dragged by. Jonas put in his time alternately going over the new plan and feeling more frightened than he had ever believed possible. Claerten reached him once, but the contact was weak and fleeting; the director hadn't enough strength to reach him again, at least not for a day or so. Jonas was exactly where he'd wanted to be: on his own. He hated the idea. Time passed, somehow. When morning dawned, Jonas awoke to find the door of his cell being unlocked. The bald man and the black-haired man were both there. He looked up at them with distaste. Then he saw what was in their minds, and the distaste changed to fear. "You have confessed," the bald one said. "It is necessary that you ratify your confession. Come with us." Jonas knew what that meant: ratification of a free confession took place under torture. He wiped his face with one hand, but he hardly thought of escaping. He had to go through with the plan. The two guards came into the cell and gripped his arms. Jonas allowed himself to be carried out into the corridor, and down it to a great wooden door. The guards opened it, and dragged him through.